


The Case of the Blogger

by olivemartini



Series: A Study in Sherlock [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blogging, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, PTSD, Worried John, aftermath of the pool scene, post season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 12:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15218822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: He reads my blog.John's not sure when the thought occurs to him, other than it does, sometime between the child's voice crying through the phone and the night at the pool, where he realizes that the only reason that Sherlock did not automatically know how the painting was a fake was because it was about space.  And that it had been sent there intentionally, because it was about space.  Sent by Moriarty, as a message to John, little reminder of "I'm watching you."Which means the blog has to be deleted.





	The Case of the Blogger

His fingers are hovering over the delete button.

John's been thinking about for over a week now, ever since he heard that child's voice crying through the phone and felt the chilling uncertainty that settled in his bones once he realized that this time, Sherlock might not win, because he did not know the answer.  And a second later, John realized he didn't know the answer because it was about  _space,_ and it was a message for John this time, so clear that Moriarty might as well have written it across a billboard.

 _I'm watching you,_ it could have said, and John got the hint, the idea forming in his mind that night as the relief and adrenaline ebbed away, like waves receding on a shoreline.   _I've been watching you, John Watson.  And I know how to hurt you._

And he had.  John stayed home from work the next two days and spent the time poring through all the old blog posts he had created, trying to see if there was any other information that he might have been on the watch for, one single weakness that he could have gleamed from the words that John wrote for the whole world to see.   _Stupid,_ John thought, and the memory of the kids voice rose up in his mind, answered by a clear view of the panic on Sherlock's face, the only time that John had seen him anything other than unsure where his work was involved.   _Stupid, not to have listened to Sherlock before.  The internet is for the world, John, not just for you.  Want to talk about your feelings?  Next time, buy a diary._

He didn't want to delete it, even as he knew he should.  He likes the watching the hits climb ( _and how many of those were sent there by Moriarty?_ ) and he likes to read the comments, and he likes that when he crawls into bed at night, there is always a distraction.  He likes that he goes out onto the streets and people in London recognize him, likes that he's got a voice to be heard, and he likes the comfort that writing gives, like a lullaby to bring him back to calm when the world gets too heavy.  And part of him, the part that he does not want to think about, likes the fact that they are proof that if there was no one else in the world that the great Sherlock Holmes gave a damn about, here, shining up from his laptop screen every night, was proof that he cares about John.

"Don't delete them."  John jumps, expecting Sherlock to be behind his shoulder, but he is still across the room.  "It won't help anything."

He wants to ask how he could possibly know what John is thinking, but he knows the answer.  John would have thought that reflex would have died down, as long as they'd been living together.

"That boy almost died because of me."  John swallowed heard.  "Because I told the whole world that you didn't know the earth went around the sun."

"Yes."  Sherlock's eyes did not leave his face, like he was still trying to deduce him. John did not look away.  He did not know what he was thinking, either- it would be helpful, just this once, if Sherlock could tell him.  "Annoying, that.  But I solved it."

"Barely."  John gestures at the laptop, and again his fingers come to the delete button, but Sherlock inclines his head, sharply, like he was going to stop him, and John pauses.  "He's reading this.  Listening.  Learning about us."

"Yes."  Sherlock leaned forward in his chair.  "Yes, I assumed as much."

"You knew?"  He doesn't know why he's surprised.  Hasn't he learned that Sherlock knows everything?  "You knew that he was reading this, and you didn't stop me."

"It's what I would do, if I were him.  And you, for that matter."

"He was gathering  _intel,_ "  John said, not quite believing it, not quite sure how they could both be so stupid.  "On the two of us, because of my stupid therapy, and you didn't bother to tell me to stop?"

"Its not your therapy, John, don't play dumb."  It wasn't.  It stopped being about therapy a long time ago, about the minute the first post went up and he realized he was writing them because he wanted to be able to look back on it, one day.  "And it's not a big deal."

"Not a big?"  John stares, because he has learned that Sherlock does not see things the same that other people do, but this one, this time, it had gone too far.  "That's it.  I'm deleting it."

"No."  Sherlock crossed the room and stole the laptop away, going back to his chair to curl back up in it, limbs folded around himself and the laptop nestled securely in his arms.  "Don't delete it.  There's no point."

"No point?"  He didn't get what Sherlock did not understand, about spying, about learning what John does not mean for him to learn.  "It's to help us win!"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  John does know what about.  Maybe because John has started talking about them in one single entity, as in  _we_ and  _us_ and  _ours,_ or maybe because he had started to talk about their lives as if it were a battle ground, or maybe just the fact that he had raised his voice and had promised him no less than two days ago that he would stop doing that.  

"He's watching us.  Someway, somehow, this man has made a giant web and we are in the middle of it, and each day the trap draws a little closer."  Sherlock is thinking of the pool, he knows.  Of how this was set in motion long before John was ever pulled into it, all because of a boy that laughed too much at someone who was much too smart for his own good, and Sherlock could not let it go.  About how he was still dancing to the song that Moriarty was playing, and always would, because it was the only time he had ever gotten to play with a worthy opponent.  

(It's another form of addiction, this.  Sherlock and Moriarty.  The chase.  The problem, the junkie rush of an elegant solution.)

"Then how are we supposed to fight back?  If he's going to always have us right where he wants us."

"We live, John Watson. We go about our lives just how we did before this whole mess started, and one day, it'll all be over.  Besides,"  Sherlock opened the laptop open again, skimming through the draft of their latest case, of the shoes and the old woman and the painting, but not the pool, never the pool, because John did not think he could tell anyone about that without his feelings for Sherlock shining out through every line.  And that, he was certain, was something that he would never bring to Moriarty's attention.  "I like your blog."

"You hate my blog."

"I don't."  Sherlock smiles, his soft one.  "It's flattering, in the right light."

John pauses, thinks of teasing, thinks of maybe pushing forward, forcing the two of them to have a conversation about happened  _after_ that night in the pool, Sherlock's incessant worry and his demands for the EMT's to check over John first, and how when they got home, John knew that Sherlock came to stand over him no less than three times that night, just to make sure he was still breathing.  But he wouldn't.

"Yours isn't bad either."  John offered.  "In the right light."

"Yes, it is."  Sherlock smiled again.  "It's terrible."

"Horrible,"  John agreed, laughing, but it was alright, because it was the two of them, and they were alive, and he wouldn't have to delete his blog, after all, even if Moriarty was reading every word.  Even if it would all blow up in their faces someday.  "But you're getting there."

Sherlock smiles.  So does John.  The blog stays.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on Instagram @olive.writes.fanfic


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